


Problematic Peace

by Artemis_Dreamer



Series: The Squishy Apocalypse [17]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Drabble, Fat Robots, Fluff, Grumpy Old Mechs, I'm Going to Hell, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-War, Retirement, Weight Gain, belly stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 11:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis_Dreamer/pseuds/Artemis_Dreamer
Summary: "Mandatory retirement," Ratchet growled, "is worse than eternity in the Pit." The aged medic took another swig of energon from the tall glass at his elbow, and reached automatically for another cookie. His function had become a pointless chore - what better way to drown his sorrows than in the excessive consumption of fuel?---In which Ratchet is grumpy, Kup is exasperated, and neither mech is enjoying their retirement. Or are they?





	

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This is a work of fetish fiction, involving unhealthy eating, weight gain and belly stuffing.
> 
> Don't like, don't read.

A civil war of four million years had finally ended. A civil war of four million years had finally ended in an Autobot victory. A civil war of four million years had finally ended in an Autobot victory, and everymech was finding it difficult to adjust to functioning in peace.

Some mechs, however, would claim that their efforts to adjust were being actively sabotaged.

"Mandatory retirement," Ratchet growled, "is worse than eternity in the Pit." 

The aged medic took another swig of energon from the tall glass at his elbow, and reached automatically for another cookie. His function had become a pointless chore - what better way to drown his sorrows than in the excessive consumption of fuel?

Just as his digits closed around another chocolate chip confection, a scarred servo yanked the treat impatiently from his grasp.

"Quit hoggin' all the slaggin' fuel," Kup griped, his tone surprisingly playful. Surprisingly, that is, to anymech unaware that the ancient medic and the equally ancient warrior were conjunx eterna. 

Kup immediately shoved the treat into his mouth, barely bothering to chew before he swallowed. Even in his old age, he valued efficiency - his tanks were perfectly capable of processing solid fuel, so why waste the time?

"Pulling slag like that,” Ratchet snapped irately, “is the exact opposite of improving my mood." 

In the face of the medic's steely glare, the warrior merely grinned. They had been conjunx since long before the war even began. Kup knew full well that Ratchet's anger was not genuine, that this was merely another manifestation of his partner’s generally foul temper. 

A foul temper that had only worsened since the end of the war. 

"I dun like it either," Kup exvented with amused exasperation. "But I know tha complaining 'bout it won't get ya anywhere."

That was an actual fact. When Optimus had imposed retirement on the eldest Autobots, citing their right to age in comfort, Ratchet had complained - loudly, irately, and at great length, directly to the Prime. Those complaints had done nothing. Many elderly mechs were in favour of the legislation, and as a lawful and just Prime, Optimus had refused to allow exceptions to his decree.

"I was sparked a medic, and I'll be a medic until the orn I deactivate. Prime slag well knew that." Ratchet stuffed another cookie into his intake, grumbling bitter expletives around a mouthful of fuel.

"An’ he knew that I’ll never be anythin’ but a warrior." Kup agreed, his tone exasperated as he yet again deflected Ratchet's servo from their shared plate. 

The medic continued to glare, and the warrior knew that it would be wise alter his tactics. Continuing in this vein would only serve to further exasperate his conjunx, and likely result in a miserable decaorn spent recharging on the sofa.

"Ya still can't deny tha there's a perk or two, eh Ratch?" The aged warrior grinned, gesturing towards the fuel that they had been sharing. 

This heaping plateful of cookies was all that remained of the decadent array of sweets that the two mechs had been gorging on throughout the afternoon. No matter whether the reason was for comfort or for pleasure, if the medic was in the mood to over-fuel, then so too was his warrior conjunx. Such an ancient sparkbond could only properly be maintained through the constant synchrony of their thoughts and actions.

Ratchet merely shrugged his shoulder struts. "The fuel’s not terrible, but it's no substitute for a long orn of hard work." 

Kup's grin widened, threatening to become a smirk. The old medic was as stubborn as ever, blatantly refusing to admit how much he truly enjoyed consuming these fuels. As another freshly-baked cookie passed Ratchet's lipplates, the warrior took a moment to truly appreciate his conjunx's frame. 

A soft, heavy frame laden down with soft, heavy rolls of fat. The medic had allowed himself to become incredibly large. Surprising, given the fact that the effects of weight gain on Cybertronian health were not fully known, but unsurprising given the medic’s increasing cynicism towards his continued function.

The warrior greedily took in every aspect of Ratchet’s beautiful frame, from the way that his bulging belly settled heavily atop his rotund thighs, to the way that his plump cheekplates jiggled with each movement of his mouth. From the way that his shoulder struts had become broad and rounded, distorting the medical symbols on his plating, to the way that even his sensitive and highly specialized servos had softened, each digit now thick and heavy.

"Fair nuff, but workin' in tha medbay doesn't make ya look hot as Pit. Fuel, on tha other hand -" Kup chuckled. Even after all these years, his conjunx’s gorgeous frame could still set the warrior's engine to revving.

Ratchet rolled his optics. "Damn dirty old mech," the medic grumbled, a hint of amusement in his tone. He had come to accept Kup's fondness for his expanding frame, and to enjoy the passion that it had rekindled in their weary relationship. 

To be perfectly frank, that fondness was mutual - the warrior's frame had become even larger than the medic's own.

Kup was reluctant to admit that he had gained weight – as a career military mech, he had spent millennia priding himself on the virtues of discipline and restraint. However, he couldn’t deny that finally letting himself go had felt truly amazing. There was a certain catharsis to be found in the act of consumption, in the way that his frame swelled further and further with each treat that passed his lipplates. What did restraint matter now that he was doomed to an eternity of retirement?

The warrior patted his massively fat, stuffed chassis with one scarred servo, setting the plating to jiggling. Not only the plating of his chassis, but the plating of his thick arm struts and even thicker chestplates. That, in addition to pair of thighs that could likely crush a lesser mech to death and an aft that practically enveloped most chairs, served as an impressive testament to the warrior’s unrestrained appetite.

Reaching for another cookie, for anything to continue stuffing his tanks, Kup’s servo came up empty. His conjunx had already taken the last of those delicious chocolate chip confections for himself, chewing it with a faint but contented smile on his sticky lipplates.

“You’ve got at least one good point,” Ratchet conceded, his servos lazily stroking the swell of his bloated chassis. “Get enough fuel in these old tanks, and I can almost forget how much I loathe retirement.” The feeling of fullness brought him a degree of pleasure that could be matched only by his conjunx’s affection.

Kup was tempted to complain about Ratchet's greed, or at very least to utter a few choice curses. For once, however, the warrior refrained. Fuel was easy to come by during times of peace. The medic’s happiness was a far rarer and more valuable commodity.

“Don’ tell me ya already had enough,” Kup chuckled, his tone teasing.

“I said that I’d almost forgotten. Almost. Does that sound like enough to you?” The medic retorted.

Ratchet had eaten far more than enough, and they both slag well knew it. Through their slow and steady fuelling, the two ancient mechs had managed to become so incredibly stuffed that it was a miracle that they hadn’t fallen into recharge right there at the table. Kup could only hope that the old medic had enough energy left to haul himself to their berth. It would be much easier for the warrior to soothe his conjunx's aching chassis from a reclining position – and to receive such treatment in return.

Struggling to his pedes, joints popping with strain and age, Kup offered a servo to his conjunx. Somehow, their combined efforts were enough to heave Ratchet from his chair without causing them both to collapse into an undignified yet thoroughly comfortable heap on the floor.

As they lumbered towards the berthroom, Kup held Ratchet's plump servo in his own, digits massaging gentle circles across the medic's sensitive knuckle joints. Ratchet exvented with pleasure, resting his helm on his conjunx's soft shoulder strut.

After a short walk that felt far, far too long, they finally reached their destination. Groaning with the mere effort of movement, the two ancient mechs settled heavily atop their berth, massive frames pressed comfortably together as they reclined amid a pile of soft mesh blankets.

“Look at us,” Ratchet scoffed. “Fat, lazy, useless old mechs.” 

The medic's chronometer indicated that it was barely even evening. He and his conjunx hadn’t fallen into recharge just yet, but it would be a matter of kliks, not of cycles. Their old, tired frames were so blissfully, achingly over-fuelled that slumber was nigh-inevitable.

“Y’ll never be useless to me, Ratch," Kup murmured, pressing a kiss to his conjunx's cheekplate. 

He meant it. The medic was the light of his spark, the one mech who never failed to remind him that he was still truly functioning, retirement be damned.

Kup kissed the medic again, and then again, his servos seeking out each sensitive spot on that soft plating with the ease of long practice. Ratchet hummed with pleasure, pausing for a moment to savour his conjunx's touch before gladly returning the favour.

Some mechs might claim that their efforts to adjust to peacetime were being actively sabotaged, that mandatory retirement was worse than eternity in the Pit. Some mechs might claim that fuel was all well and good, but that it was ultimately no substitute for a long, hard orn of work in a stressful medbay.

Some mechs might be lying.

**Author's Note:**

> For the anonymous Batformers. 
> 
> It turns out that grumpy old mechs are a lot of fun to write - who knew? 
> 
> I'm working on a whole bunch of requests at the moment, and will try to get them done in a timely manner - hopefully everything will be completed over the next few weeks. I appreciate your patience.
> 
> Any and all feedback is much appreciated.


End file.
